


Now He's So Devoid of Color

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Bathing/Washing, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Confusion, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Rape/Non-con, Mental Instability, Mind Control, Moral Dilemmas, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: Rumlow was never told that handling the Soldier on missions meant nannying him off the field.This isn't the glorious service to HYDRA he envisioned, and he's not taking it well.





	Now He's So Devoid of Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hydra_Trash_Gal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydra_Trash_Gal/gifts).



Nobody had ever warned Rumlow that the Soldier could be so _annoying_.

 _Dangerous_ , sure. Like handling a tiger, had been his impression; beautiful and impressive, but one wrong move, and you triggered the instinct that told it to rip you in half with one swipe. And he _had_ been that way, in the field, thinking on his feet and responding so fast it made Rumlow’s mind do backflips trying to keep up. He learned within the first five minutes not to try; he’d only get in the way. He gave and took orders if necessary. Out of the field, the Soldier answered to them. In the thick of the battle, though, you did what the Soldier told you to do, immediately and without question, because he was always thinking two steps ahead of you even if hellfire itself was raining down on him.

Back on base, he had all these trigger words to get him to do what the techs and agents wanted, and he reported himself almost robotically. Rumlow should have taken that as a warning sign; turns out he’s spent so much time getting his brain fried that he can barely remember how to function outside of immediate orders. Legend happens they used to send this guy out as a spy as well as an assassin. That he’d been trained in the cultures from country to country so that he could be sent anywhere you needed him to and blend seamlessly into their society.

One look at his confused, half-glazed eyes has Rumlow doubting this guy could even blend in with the 2 a.m. crowd at a Waffle House. He stares out at the small village where the safe house is located, bemused by everything he sees. He’d needed to be told to buckle his seatbelt, and talked through the basics of the process.

It’s disillusioning, is the thing. Rumlow’s been looking up to the Soldier throughout his own rigorous trainings, holding him up in his mind as an example to which he might someday only hope to compare. The ultimate thrill of a perfect kill, the ultimate glory. And then it turns out the Soldier’s too pathetic to put on his own seat belt or clean the blood spatters from his own face.

Rumlow had to do that, wiping at his chin like one would do with a baby who’d eaten his food too sloppily. The Soldier stared blankly the whole time, not a clue in his mind as to why there might be shame in such uselessness, and Rumlow felt his irritation grow with each passing second. He scrubbed at the Soldier’s face with a spare shirt, a little more roughly than he needed to, until he saw the Soldier wince. It didn’t bring him the satisfaction he was craving.

They pull into the driveway, winding around behind the safe house, and finally pull into the garage. Their van is invisible from the street, which is how Rumlow prefers it. Especially now, having to guide this brain-dead moron inside. No need to attract any attention to the large, glassy-eyed, blood-stained dude in black tac gear struggling how to figure out how to enter a house.

“Take off your seatbelt and come inside,” he tries. The Soldier tugs hopelessly at the belt, glancing nervously up at Rumlow as though he’s going to be struck for disobeying. Not like Rumlow’s not tempted; he can get his guns apart to clean them easily enough. How come he can’t figure out a damn seatbelt? “Push that button there,” he says irritably, pointing to it, and the Soldier finally does, with a childlike look of dawning comprehension that makes Rumlow grit his teeth. He should’ve just let the Soldier rip the thing out of the car with that shiny robot arm of his, let Pierce deal with getting it repaired. How come there wasn’t any training for _this_ part of the Soldier’s maintenance? A friggin’ instruction manual? How come he wasn’t _told_ about this?

At least he can walk in the door by himself. Everyone files inside as quietly as possible, methodically stripping themselves of their gear and hanging it neatly on the coat hooks. Should the need arise, they’ll be able to get it on in under thirty seconds and clear the hell out of here.

“Get your boots off,” Rollins catches the Soldier before he can move deeper into the house, “You’re leaving tracks. If we need to roll out in a hurry, this place needs to look like we were never here.”

His eyes are so glazed at the instruction that Rumlow’s not sure if he even processed half of it. Fuck, how could he not understand “make it look like we were never here?” It’s pretty much half of the guy’s fuckin’ brand recognition.

“Fucking hell,” Rollins mutters, his piercing gaze meeting Rumlow’s. “Are we sure there ain’t something really wrong with him?”

The rest of Rumlow’s team is muttering to each other, trying to figure out if anyone knows about this, but Rumlow and Rollins are the only ones who spent any amount of time training with him back on base. Agent Karstin was supposed to be here with some of his team to supervise Rumlow’s first mission commanding the Soldier, but some crisis came up and they were called back before the van even made it out the door. But Rumlow had worked with the Soldier long enough in training that he’d been confident he could handle him in the field; hell, with weapons and combat, he mostly handled himself.

And now Rollins is kneeling on the ground, untying the Soldier’s shoes for him while he stands there frowning slightly like he has no idea what’s the matter.

“Even if something is really fucked,” Rumlow says, trying to sound confident and in-charge and not at all resentful, “We don’t have equipment here to fix it. We need to get in contact with Pierce, or Karstin if he’s back. We’ll just have to manage him until we’re cleared to leave. Murphy, you work on contact. The rest of you, split up and see if you can bring in some food for tonight, nothing that’ll make a big mess in the kitchen. Rollins,” he adds grimly, “You stay with me, help me manage the Soldier.” _Help me clean him up_ , he means, _and then possibly question him to see if he’s majorly fucked in the head._ He doesn’t want his team to watch him nannying the Soldier into the bathtub.

Once everyone’s busied themselves with their respective tasks, Rumlow commands the Soldier to follow him down the hall. The Soldier can do that much, still with that lost-puppy look on his face. Rollins follows up with a folded set of clothes; the Asset was the one who took on the most kills this mission, because he could do it so quietly that they didn’t have time to make a sound before he was on them.

That same silent, slithering shadow of the darkness now stands helplessly in the bathroom, looking to Rumlow for his next order.

“Get yourself undressed, Soldier,” Rollins says from the doorway. And, thank fuck, he seems able to do that by himself. At least, he removes his shirt and tac pants without any trouble, revealing a long streak of dried blood down his flesh arm and the right side of his torso. Rumlow really hopes the Soldier will be able to wash that himself.

Holding his bloodied clothes out awkwardly, he stands there socks in his socks and red-smudged underpants with that glassy, bemused look. “ _All_ of the clothes, Soldier. Take off _all_ of the clothes,” Rumlow says irritably, his patience worn thin.

And the Soldier tries to—literally. Once he’s stripped out of his undergarments, he heads straight for Rumlow, metal hand fumbling with the zip of his pants with the most intent look he’s had on his stupid face all evening. Shock turns quickly to rage, and before he’s thought it through Rumlow’s pulling back and striking the Soldier across the face, the slap resonant in the small bathroom. “Did I say _my_ fucking clothes? Pull yourself together, you pathetic piece of shit! You’re supposed to be the pinnacle of—” And he stops in shock and instant regret when what he’s done catches up to him. The Soldier’s eyes are wet. He’s crying.

Rumlow hadn’t held back any, but he’d used an open hand, not a fist, and it’s nothing compared to routine disciplinary practices base or the injuries he’s said to have sustained in the field without complaint. Yet here he is, head down like a kicked puppy, shoulders jerking with repressed sobs.

Rumlow catches Rollins’s gaze and sees his own dark thoughts reflected there. He didn’t mean to lose control like that—it’s unprofessional, and shitty besides, but Rollins is clearly ruminating on the same thoughts Rumlow is, and neither of them knows how to handle it. Why would the Soldier’s initial reaction be to go for the fly, upon what he thought was an instruction to undress his handlers? Why did he get that look on his face like he suddenly knew what orders he was following?

He pushes the thought down. He’s probably just being paranoid, and the Soldier’s a halfway brain-dead moron who’s been wiped all to shit to keep him in line. Either way, though, nothing about his service to HYDRA is the glorious lie Rumlow's been spoon-fed during his own journey up through their ranks. Well, so what? What else is new about this piece-of-shit world?

For now, he’s just gotta accept responsibility for what’s in front of him. He fucked this up, and now he’s got to fix it.

“Hey, Soldier?” Rumlow starts, forcing his voice to be steady, “I’m sorry. That was—an error. My error.” The Soldier glances up, red-eyed, in a strange and sad mix of misery and intrigue. “You thought you were following orders. I know. Just get in the tub, all right?”

The Soldier obeys, and Brock finds himself more inclined to be gentle as he guides him to sit down. This shitshow isn’t the Soldier’s fault, not really.

Rollins and Rumlow team up to wash him, finding it easier than ordering him through the bathing process step-by-step. Rollins uses a sliver of soap from his travel kit to scrub him down while Rumlow carefully rinses blood out of his hair. The warm water and gentle washing seem to calm him, and when they finally get him dried off and into a backup set of clothing, he’s back to that look of glazed bemusement that makes Rumlow grit his teeth.

But what’s he going to do? Take this shit out on the Soldier forever? Leave HYDRA? The latter is out of the question; the only way you leave HYDRA is in a coffin. And besides, the end goal gives Rumlow a purpose, something he can at least believe in more than anything else he’s seen in this world. Rumlow knows it’s worth sacrificing the lives of a few. It shouldn’t surprise him that the organization as a whole sees things the same way.

For now, all he can do is lead the Soldier down the hall, hoping his team has scrounged up something half-decent to eat.


End file.
